Isn’t it calming?
That particular buzz on my ears
after a phone call, for a second, I just forget everything. I forgot the words
I forgot to say. I forgot the conversation that asks me to forget everything.
And what churns through my ears is the sheer tone perplexing my thoughts and my
hands; I forgot I existed.
I didn’t know: I forgot how to
forget you.
But it’s calming, knowing even for a
second, I could forget your face and your gaze pulling mine despite you would
look away when we could finally lock eyes, and the words from your lips—for me—to
leave me. I don’t know how that particular bleep after you pushed the button
off a second before I do, could make me forget what goodbyes meant—to you for
me—for me to you. Why, am I going to see you? Are you going to look at me,
looking at you, and you’ll look away when our eyes about to meet? Will you
redial those numbers to tell me no? No. But if you ever did, I’d still answer.
And when I’d call back and you wouldn’t pick up even after the ninth time, I’d
pretend you were just a second late to press that button—but which button? I’d
probably understand now, that automated voice talking back at me, telling me
the things I already know: you’re out of
reach. But why does it sting? She would tell me this twice, just in case I
didn’t understand the first. By then, when she finishes, the post dial tone
would flood my ears; it’s the end of the line.
And
maybe you’ll understand why whenever we look at people board their plane—or a
train, we could only run our eyes until we don’t see them anymore, this perhaps,
is the reason why even if you hang up, I’d still listen: to the dial tone along
our post conversation; but unlike those people on the train who can look back, you just can’t. Post calls are departures
meant for our ears. Ears alone. The worst part: It’s meant to hurt the other
person.
What
happens after departure is: knowing you’re looking at the sky, with someone
else, and no matter how far the distance in between, it’s the same sky for our
eyes, but I remember, you don’t look at the sky.
Are
you still on the other end, listening to the tone of our disconnection,
replaying the conversation? Did you tell me the right things you rehearsed from the back of your mind? Because I
wish I was able to. Partly because I wish I matter. Maybe because I wish you
would realize you’re the only one who did. And I could only wish I did, too.
And on that cut, I could only hear the period that separates us. No. Perhaps an
ellipsis; it continues even after you hang up. Except we do not. Perhaps you do. While at one point, I do not. Perhaps we
still do. For you. For me. But not for the both of us. But then it’s calming, even after you fail me, your departure
allows me to pull myself together at the end of the line, not for you, but for
me.
But what does validate goodbye? Is
goodbye still a goodbye when you’ve left before the moment I could even say it?
After all, good byes are just phone calls shared between two people; one would
hang up; one would be suspended at the end of the line.
I did.
